


Aftermath

by OniGil



Series: Sky and Stars [2]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 10:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1938183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OniGil/pseuds/OniGil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lockdown is gone, Drift and Wing are reunited, and life begins to find some semblance of normalcy. But some wounds take time to heal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> One of two follow-ups to Dawning (so far...?!): this is the "bitter," the other is the "sweet."

            Drift remembered their shelter in the ruins of Protihex, his and Wing’s, and he remembered what it had been like to recharge beside Wing. Drift on his side, Wing on his back, and sometime during the night Drift would reach out just far enough for his fingers to brush against Wing’s plating.

            It had been so long since they had lived in that place, but somehow, with Wing here again at long last, Drift expected nothing to change. Their first time recharging together on the _Nox Terminus_ , grounded on the land that doubled as the Yeager farm and the new Autobot sanctuary, he had settled down beside Wing and eased into recharge, expecting to wake up with his hand wrapped in Wing’s, perhaps.

            Instead, he onlined halfway through his recharge cycle in a crushing embrace, as though Wing were trying to physically hide inside him. The white mech’s plating twitched fitfully, clamping down tight for defense and then easing back for ventilation.

            “Wing,” he said. Wing’s helm wedged itself under his chin, but there was no response. Drift wrapped his arms around the other mech’s shoulders, exploring his back by memory until his hands soothed over the folded wingpanels. He crooned wordlessly, layering his energy field around them to wrap Wing in protective warmth. Wing relaxed halfway—no more.

            The next recharge cycle was the same. And the next, and the next. Wing shivered uncontrollably against him, trapped in memories as his scattered and fragmented processor slowly pulled itself back together after his long captivity.

            Drift had never felt so powerless. He had sworn to himself to protect Wing, but this was not an enemy he could fight.

            “Is it the memories?” Drift asked during the brightest part of the day, under the blue Earth sky. He and Wing had flown together in a lazy patrol circle and now perched side by side on a desert cliff, basking. Wing had not yet scanned an Earth vehicle. He made excuses with smiles and little waving motions of his hands, but Drift knew with a private smile that Wing loved his Cybertronian form too much to change now.

            Wing looked out to the horizon. The sun gleamed off his plating, making him almost too brilliant to look at. Drift could compose hundreds of verses about how Wing looked, and they would never match up to the real thing.

          “Yes,” he admitted. For a moment it seemed he was going to say something else. But he only repeated, “Yes.”

            Drift let his energy field push outward, mingling with Wing’s. “If I can help…”

            “Thank you, Drift.” Wing’s hand slid over to brush his. “It will pass.”

            But it didn’t seem to be passing. During the days Wing seemed fine: he loved learning about this new planet, spending time with their human friends and especially with Drift. He had even approached Drift, uncharacteristically shy, to ask him to spar.

            “I may be rusty,” he said with a rueful smile. “Go easy on me?”

            And he _was_ rusty. Drift couldn’t be sure whether it was funny or sad, the first few times that they sparred together. Back in Protihex, Wing had always soundly beaten him, and always had encouraging pointers for the next round. Now Wing faltered over movements he should have been able to accomplish without an instant’s hesitation.

            It was Drift’s turn to help him up after a fall, and to remind him of the things that Wing himself had taught him long ago. Their patience paid off: Wing regained more of his old skill by the day.

            And yet most nights still found Wing curled tightly in on himself, as if protecting his most vulnerable points. Sometimes Drift came online to find Wing sitting beside him, lost in thought, his face achingly sad.

 

* * *

 

            Drift onlined when Wing moved, automatically reaching for his swords after thousands of years of war. He squashed that impulse and reached for Wing instead. Wing’s vents hitched in something like a sob when Drift’s hands touched his armor. He swung his legs over the side of the berth and stood, leaving Drift grasping at empty air.

            “Wing,” Drift said muzzily, still booting up.

            “I need air,” Wing said, choked, already on his way out.

            “Wait… Wing, wait, I’ll come…” Drift stumbled after him as his systems caught up. Wing fled to the top hatch of the ship and stood flexing his wingpanels for a moment, staring up at the stars. Then he transformed and took to the air. Drift followed without question.

            The cool night air soothed his tired circuits, but he was more worried about Wing. He flew as close as he could, tentatively stretching out his energy field when Wing didn’t respond to his comm pings. Wing’s field was a writhing mass of chaos and hurt, so unlike his old self.

            Drift had to push his slower altmode to the limit to keep up as they flew under the stars. By the time Wing angled downward over their favorite desert, weariness dragged at his limbs. He hadn’t pushed this altmode so hard yet.

            The flight seemed to have calmed Wing when he transformed and landed on the rocks. His energy field pulsed slow, tired, as he settled into a meditative sitting position. Drift sat across from him. His arm trembled with the urge to reach out and touch, but he held off.

            “I don’t know how you stand living on that ship,” he said. “The memories…”

            “It isn’t that,” Wing said quietly. “The _Nox Terminus_ was meant for good once, before Lockdown found it.”

            “Then what _is_ the matter, Wing? And how can I help you?”

            A corner of Wing’s mouth twitched in the saddest approximation of his usual fond smile. Then it faded.

            “I…” His optic shutters clicked, and a low keen emitted from his vocalizer. “I’ve failed them, Drift.”

            “Who?”

            Wing clicked in distress. “I have been trying to teach Tessa about our culture. Our old ways, before the war. But I… I have forgotten so much.”

            Drift wanted to speak, but the enormity of Wing’s pain crashed through his energy field as the jet curled in on himself, hiding his face in his hands.

            “You can’t understand what it was like,” he whispered. “Being on that ship for so long—there was no recharge berth, no outside network, and what he… what Lockdown did… to me… I’ve _forgotten_.”

            “Oh, Wing,” Drift whispered, finally reaching out and drawing the shaking mech forward into his arms. Wing buried his face in Drift’s neck.

            “I was entrusted with our history,” Wing said. “I vowed to preserve our past, our ways. I… I am the last of the Circle, and I’ve _forgotten_. How much of our culture will be lost because I failed in my charge?”

           Drift’s engine purred soothingly as he stroked the curving planes of Wing’s back. “It might not be lost, Wing. It’s only been a few weeks after so long, your processor is still defragmenting. The information is still _there_. Look at your fighting skills… you thought you had forgotten those, but you will soon be just as you were before. Lockdown wouldn’t have been careless with such valuable data.”

            Wing’s fingers wrapped around his arms, a reassuring touch. His whirring vents gradually slowed. “That… that’s true,” he said slowly. Drift pressed a kiss to his head fins.

            “You haven’t failed, Wing.”

            “What if it _is_ gone?” Wing asked quietly.

            Drift untangled them just enough to take Wing’s face in his hands. “If it is, we move forward. We’re all that’s left of our kind, and we can’t go back to Cybertron. If our past is gone, we can still build our future.”


End file.
